


Never Bury My Bones Apart From Yours

by GrannyBoo



Category: Undeadwood (Web-series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Background Mirabella, Beauty-and-the-beast style AU, Blindfolds, Both for sexual content and for plot elements, But none of the Stockholm Syndrome, Exercises in trust, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Monster Hunter!Clayton, Monster!Matthew, Quarry-to-friends-to-lovers, injuries, sexual content in future chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-01-23 02:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21312568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrannyBoo/pseuds/GrannyBoo
Summary: There are very few cases sent Clayton Sharpe’s way that turn out to have legitimate supernatural causes. The odd large dog here, an incorrectly labelled alchemist there. Once he’d been requested to take care of a howling banshee that turned out to be nothing more than a natural wind-tunnel and a feral cat’s eyes.Which is why he does his own investigating. Better to eliminate the ill-informed middle man and find the cases himself than to take on time-wasting goose-chases.Its why he nearly completely skips over the crime-heavy no-horse town of Deadwood. The only thing keeping him from just walking out of Al Swearengen’s office is his painfully light purse and the hefty payment assured even if it turns out to be something inane.-or-The non-stockholm syndrome Beauty and the Beast AU--UPDATE--I couldn't find the spoons to finish this properly so the final chapter is an outline of where I was going with the story.
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 18
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first piece of Multi-chaptered bullshittery for this chaos fandom. Hope y’all enjoy, mind the tags and enjoy the ride.

There are very few cases sent Clayton Sharpe’s way that turn out to have legitimate supernatural causes. The odd large dog here, an incorrectly labelled alchemist there. Once he’d been requested to take care of a howling banshee that turned out to be nothing more than a natural wind-tunnel and a feral cat’s eyes.

Which is why he does his own investigating. Better to eliminate the ill-informed middle man and find the cases himself than to take on time-wasting goose-chases.

Its why he nearly completely skips over the crime-heavy no-horse town of Deadwood. The only thing keeping him from just walking out of Al Swearengen’s office is his painfully light purse and the hefty payment assured even if it turns out to be something inane.

“If this thing turns out to be just a really big fuckin’ dog,” Al drawls, taking a drag of his cigarette while he takes a pile of papers from Dan, his right-hand, “and all my agents have just been over-exaggerating pussies, then I’ll fire them and give you what they’d’ve been paid for the month. Payment’ll be $1000; $250 now, the rest when you bring me that _thing’s _head in this,” he digs something out of a drawer in his desk, throwing it at Clayton. The hunter catches what appears to be a moderately sized hessian sack. Big enough to carry the head of a horse in, if need be.

“So I take it you haven’t seen this supposed creature yourself,” Clayton hears a snort while he stows the sack in his bag.

“Fuck no.”

“Can you tell me more about it?” He asks over his whiskey glass but the question is met with silence and narrowed eyes.

“First you’ll tell me if we have a deal. I ain’t gonna spout a bunch of shit just to have it blown up in my face when every swindler with a shotgun this side of the Mississippi comes in with mutilated animals tellin’ me they’ve ‘killed the beast’. The number one requirement for this job is discretion. Not a word of this travels outside of Deadwood,” Al stares Clayton down (not that it scares him much, he’s dealt with far more intimidating people and creatures than a shadow-king hiding behind his money and a desk).

“…Deal. Now, what do you know about it?”

The story of the so-called Demon of Deadwood isn’t well known. The events only spoken of in hushed tones amongst the townspeople and never when an outsider is around for fear of becoming a public spectacle. Al doesn’t make it sound like something from a fairytale. The tale itself could have easily been just that; some made up fable meant to teach children some well-meaning lesson under the guise of a horrific scare-tactic but the way he delivers it, dead-panned and frustrated from the inconvenience rather than like a story-teller gives Clayton a small degree of belief in, at least as far as Al is concerned, the truth of the tale.

It started with the church – originally just on the edge of Deadwood, visited frequently and well-kept thanks to the resident preacher who had apparently been the centre of the entire mess that followed.

“Their name?” Clayton asks, a short nod to Dan as his whiskey glass is filled while Swearengen downs his and goes for another as well.

“Does it matter? Far’s we know, he’s dead.”

“It doesn’t, just curious. Go on.”

No one that had been inside the church were around to talk about it, one of the few confirmed victims of the event being the young Miss Livingston, said to have run out of the church, screaming about the demon and the preacher it consumed before crossing the edge of the property and turning to stone. Someone said she didn’t quite stop all the way, overbalancing, and shattering against the ground while the rest of the town watched in horror.

Then the creature showed itself.

A massive, hulking beast; five feet tall even on all fours, with horns, jagged fangs and vicious looking claws, standing at the gate of the church, between the rest of Deadwood and the people now trapped inside.

It spoke, according to the few testimonies provided by people who were close enough before all hell broke loose and the entire town evacuated and set up shop a day away by horse from the original site. One or two said it made some threat about damnation, hellfire, and other over-embellished bullshit Al didn’t seem to take any credence in. But most statements agreed on the same thing.

“‘Run’?”

“‘Run’. Apparently all it said,” Al repeats, just expressing second hand information as matter-of-factly as he’d presented the rest. “Pretty much everyone bailed after that, someone tried to get into the church to help the people inside but the whatever-the-fuck it was stopped ‘em.”

“Alright, so you want it dead-“

“In itty bitty bits and pieces,” he emphasises while Clayton reminds himself of the $1000 payday at the end of this and squashes down the irritation.

“It’s a day’s ride away. What stops y’all from just avoiding the place?” Clayton leans back in his chair, while Swearengen rifles through the papers on his desk, dropping them closer to the hunter.

“‘Cause, since it happened, its been picking off livestock and stealin’ shit from _my town_ and the _cattle_ out there are talking about picking up and fucking off somewhere else,” he hisses, waving an accusing finger out the window. “If payin’ a monster exterminator is the easiest way to keep from having wasted a fortune rebuilding the fuckin’ town just to move again-“ he gestures to Clayton, as if in explanation. The hunter scratches the side of his nose and stands, tossing back his drink.

“Well…I’ll just take my advance now. Then, I ‘spose its time to put the ‘_cattle’s’_ minds at ease,” he turns, gripping his pack and hovering by the desk while Dan gathers the bonds, counting them and then counting again before he hands the pile over to Clayton. He didn’t see a point in counting over himself it in the office; any mistakes in his payment can be rectified when he returns, either with the creature’s head or with the grounds for the termination of incompetent scouts.

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya,” Clayton tips his hat, hearing a scoff from the man at the desk.

“It’ll be a pleasure when I’ve got a new mantlepiece,” he says with a vicious grin, starting to speak to Dan as Clayton shuts the door behind him.

-

—

——

—

-

The ride out of Deadwood and into the woods creeping into its southern border is, thankfully, quiet and uninterrupted, save for the occasional wildlife that crosses his path. The leaves are beginning to shift from their vivid greens of the summer into the warm golds and stark reds of fall, and the warmth of the day begins its descent into the mild chill of the evening as the sun dips below the canopy and the sky starts to darken about three quarters of the way through his journey. It doesn’t take him long to set up camp; a bedroll, a small fire, with his horse hitched to the tree across from him but sleeping itself was a task.

Normally he’s able to drift off with his gun beneath his pillow and the soothing hum of insects and wildlife in the woods around him. But there is no hum.

Only silence. No barks of foxes or calls of deer or shrill chirps of bats that would normally inhabit the woods at that late hour, just pure silence that sends warning screams through Clayton’s brain; something there is scaring off everything else. Something is _wrong_.

He sleeps fitfully, jarred awake by every pop of the fire or the crack of twigs beneath his horse as it shifts in its own, much more restful, sleep. Eventually, the gradual lightening of the sky and the harsh bite of the early morning chill brings him to a more substantial wakefulness. The fire has already been doused by the layer of damp settling over the ground beneath the layer of fog hovering just up to Clayton’s knees. The sunlight pierces through the trees and sets the fog aglow in pale oranges and yellows, a nice sight as the hunter collects his few possessions and sets off on his journey.

Its not long until he sees a signpost, vines creeping up the wood as if trying to drag it back into the earth and nearly entirely covering the text branded into the sign. _Deadwood – 2 miles_. His horse snorts a little as he nudges it forward a little faster. Not far now.

A bridge is the first sign of any former pieces of civilisation, apparently just outside of the town itself according to Dan, who gave him a short description of the original site of Deadwood. The sprawling river beneath, a good 20 feet wide, provides a constant thrum in Clayton’s ears, almost hiding the sound of cracking wood to his left when his horse steps onto the dirt.

He sees a flash of black for just a split second. Then black and silver as an enormous shape makes its way out from behind the trees.

The scouts weren’t wrong. This isn’t just a big dog.

Even crouching low, stalking towards Clayton with its gleaming yellow eyes fixed on him, it stands nearly as tall as his horse, easily six to seven feet at full height. The scales covering its back and the outer sides of its legs shif black and silver in the light of the sun before they fade into shaggy, pitch black fur that covers its belly and the undersides of its legs. Its head more resembles a stripped skull, with ragged horns that curl over the top, dipping back behind long pointed ears before reappearing by its jaw in a ram-like curve. The fur on its head is short and skin drawn tight so he can see the dip between its cheekbones and the mandible as it fades into the entirely exposed fangs, pulled back in a perpetual snarl as its maw opens and a hissing whisper echoes through the trees around him.

** _“Ḻ̵̣͐͌e̵̻͙͑a̸͕͍̎v̸̖͔͌e̴̛̬.”_ **

Clayton can’t help the small shudder that runs down his spine at the creature’s voice, if it can be called that. Its like the shriek of wind through the trees, layers of _manwomanchild_’s voices and snarls all mixing into an amalgamate sound the startles his horse into frantic stamping and sends Clayton’s heart rate up. Its like nothing he’s ever heard before but he manages to steel himself with a steadying breath, a hand drifting to the grip of his gun.

“Can’t do that, unfortunate as it is,” he watches the creature, unblinking, tracking its movements as it pads closer and closer. Its motions make Clayton’s horse snicker and finally shriek in panic, hooves stamping ground as its rider tries to steady it again. It doesn’t work this time.

The ground meets Clayton’s back with a suddenness that rips his breath from his lungs and leaves him gasping on the ground while his horse turns and gallops off in the other direction. When the world finally stops spinning, he realises he’s alone, on the ground, with his quarry looming over him, fierce claws digging into the dirt as it gets to only ten feet away.

Six.

Two.

Its proximity and the way it dips its head down to his level forces him to focus on its teeth, all of them razor sharp with two sets of massive fangs, vicious and gleaming in the light of the sun as the creature’s jaws part again and it speaks, the quiet wail surrounding his body and making his muscles freeze in primal terror as it practically hovers over him.

**_“I̶͚͠t̵̘́’̴͕̓s̴̀ͅ ̷̻́a̶͖̋l̶͍̏r̵̮̃i̶͈͗g̵̱̒h̴̨͌t̷̞̊.̸̘̍ ̸̦̽D̴͑͜ỏ̵̻n̷̘̿’̵̬͂t̶̨͠ ̵͉̈b̵̢͊e̵͙͂ ̵͇͌á̸̝f̷̪̏r̷̪̕a̶̟͌ĩ̸̬d̴͓̊,” _**it hisses, an attempt at softness that’s almost convincing if it wasn’t for the ivory blades those words filter through. Clayton keeps as still as he can, watching. Waiting. His fingers brush the grip of his still holstered gun.

He blinks.

_It moves_.

He draws and the shot rings out, only clipping the creature’s shoulder but forcing it back with a piercing howl of pain and Clayton is on his feet and scrambling backwards, cocking his gun and firing again. It sends the dirt by its feet scattering across the ground while the creature darts to the side, but it doesn’t run. No, it stays well within sight, moving closer, slowly.

Its toying with him.

“_Fuckin’ shit_,” Clayton hisses, cocking his gun again and aiming but only hovering over the trigger, waiting for the creature to attack. It doesn’t. It paces before him, staying just out of reach until it darts into the trees and suddenly _its gone._

A monster that size should make some sort of sound, should be easily visible in the space between the trees but there’s _nothing_ and Clayton can feel his heart rate climbing, his blood pulsing in his ears. He takes a deep breath, trying to control the panic he can feel creeping into his mind. He’s taken out a lot of creatures before, put them in the ground, scared them off whatever property they were wreaking havoc on, sent them back to whatever hell-scape they were from-

But he’s never come across something this large and this intelligent while he was alone.

Normally the bigger they are, the less brainpower they’re capable of. The louder they are. The easier to see.

But this hulking mass of muscle and scales vanished in the blink of an eye and Clayton feels the encroaching openness of his position force his brain to scream at his legs to run, flee, _escape_ but he tamps it down, turning on the spot, watching for any sign of the creature. He hears a twig snap behind him. He turns and there’s a flash of black and a snarl but nothing else appears. He needs to get away, get somewhere more defensible.

The bridge.

Only two ways on or off, and a quick escape into the water if push comes to shove.

He waits for a moment, watching the woods surrounding him. Then he runs.

His footsteps echo back to him as he sprints, eyes darting around him, catching the occasional flash of the creature but he doesn’t slow down, he doesn’t stop; even when he catches a tree branch to the face, knocking his hat off and slashing across his brow. He blinks as blood wells and quickly drips down into his eyes, running until his feet hit the wooden slats of the bridge and just a little further. Then he’s standing in the centre, looking back the way he came.

Its _there_.

Prowling closer, yellow gaze fixed on Clayton.

“**_S̷̟̓t̵̝̓ö̶͙p̸͙͌.̶͕̀ ̸͉̈́B̷̻̀ë̶̮f̵͈͝ö̷̢́r̵̺̽è̷̜ ̷̽ͅy̷̖͛ọ̵̇u̸̞͘ ̶̮̕h̸̖͛u̵̪̿r̶̦͊t̷̼́ ̸̞̈ŷ̵͉o̴̠͝ű̵̠r̸̬͑s̶͕̕ë̷͜lf_**”

The hunter aims his gun again, but the creature doesn’t seem phased by it, its claws scoring the wood as it makes its way closer. Clayton fires another round, unsure if it made its target as he blinks the blood out of his eyes. He must have because the creature lets out a pained howl, the blurry red shape pausing just a little ways from him. It shifts, twitching and shaking every time he closes and re-opens his eyes. He fires again, but hears it clip wood, splinters scattering back and hitting him. He closes his eyes and stumbles back, arm covering his face on instinct. Something beneath his foot creaks…

Then it gives way.

As he falls, he feels the sharp scrape of wood gouging into the flesh of his calf and up the side of his ribs, the shock of pain whiting out his mind just long enough to keep him from reaching out for purchase. Before he makes contact with the water, he thinks he hears the shrieking howl of the creature fade into a single sound. A man’s scream.

Then everything is silenced by the roar of water.

He sinks to the bottom quickly, the river bed not far below the surface. His legs crumble beneath his weight against the shifting dirt, his upper back hits and he’s robbed of all breath. The water only has a moment to rush into his mouththroat_lungs_. Then his head clips something solid. The pain spreads from the back of his skull like the quick-flash crack of ice and the last thing he sees before the world fades to black is a dark shape breaching the surface of the water above.

-

\--

\---

\--

-

Here's a design sketch of the creature <3


	2. Chapter 2

** _ Chapter Two _ **

** _ _ **

The world returns to him in phases.

First the deep rumble of a man’s voice, followed by a woman’s, clipped and frustrated.

Then the warmth of sunlight hitting his skin. Someone had undressed him, leaving him in just a shirt and his pants. The lack of his coat, or his gun belt, his boots with his back up blade, or any of his normally secreted away weapons makes him sit up in a flash, hunched over with a groan of regret as his head throbs and swims.

Then comes the sharp, persistent ache in his leg and side, spreading steadily throughout his body until he’s just one single throbbing mass of pain. The urge to vomit takes a moment to quell but he manages, squinting in the light when he’s finally able to open his eyes.

He’s in a small makeshift tent, sheets and rope artfully tied together and supported by smoothed branches but when he reaches out to steady himself, it isn’t dirt or grass he finds, but a smooth stone floor, cool to the touch. The sun seems to come from behind him, filtering in through a stained glass window that casts reds and greens and blues over the floor and the makeshift bed he’s been placed on.

“-you tell him that if that door isn’t open when I go to see him next- oh,” the muffled woman’s voice is clear as the sheet is pulled away and he’s met with a surprised and unfamiliar face. “You’re awake.”

She’s beautiful, with sharp features framed by loose strands of copper hair that falls out of her messy updo. Her piercing grey/green eyes run over his body, an emotionless assessment that lingers on his brow (which he realises is covered in a bandage) and his leg, the intensity of her gaze making him shift in discomfort, jostling his leg once again.

“Don’t do that,” she chides, kneeling just outside of the tent, looking at him like a mother does her disobedient toddler. “You did some severe damage to your leg when you fell. The Reverend tried his best but it may have been…exacerbated on the way here,” she explains. Clayton’s mind is still fuzzy from the pain and something foreign, similar to the blur he gets when he has to take a whiskey-shot painkiller before getting stitched up but he’s relatively certain he’d been outdoors, getting well-acquainted with the bottom of a river last he’d been aware.

“Where’m I?”

The woman shuffles in a little closer, hands up placatingly when Clayton jerks away again. Don’t matter if she’s a woman, he’s seen far littler ladies tear men larger than him apart with no more than a particularly sturdy hair pin.

“I need to check your injuries. You took a fairly solid blow to the head and I believe you may have a concussion, as well as possibly a torn-up-something in your leg. I’d like to make sure you’re still able to walk,” she insists. Clayton eyes her up and down, seeing only sincere concern for him so he waves in a general ‘go ahead’ gesture.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he points out while she starts to unwrap the bandage around his head, taking great care when she gets to the gauze beneath.

“You’re safe,” she replies, and she must see the look of dissatisfaction with her answer because she lets out a quiet sigh before she continues, “You’re in the church. I’m assuming you know about what happened here if you made it this deep into the woods without one of Swearengen’s men stopping you?”

He doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t seem to need him to, shifting her focus back to the wound on his head. It stings even without her gentle prodding, and he can’t help the hiss of pain and the subtle jerk back but she deals with it with patience and waits for him to allow her back into his space.

“No signs of infection…None on the back of your head either. How do you feel? Any dizziness or confusion? Beyond what would be normal for your…situation, I mean,” she adds and Clayton almost allows himself a laugh but thinks better of it, both for maintaining the minimal amounts of pain thrumming through his skull and to not give this woman a false sense of camaraderie with him. He doesn’t answer at first, “silence won’t help your situation. My intent is to make sure you’re not going to collapse as soon as we let you out of this bed.”

“…Bit of dizziness. Little bit’a nausea.”

“Follow my finger,” she requests and he does so, blinking and drifting back when she puts her hand in front of him initially before he’s able to focus. “A minor concussion. Take it easy when you move around. We’ll get you something light to eat in a bit so you can have some more medicine. Now let’s look at that leg,” she murmurs, shuffling further down the space towards his knee, careful in the way she exposes the flesh and rightfully so when all he feels is a dull pain sparking in his knee and encompassing what feels like his entire leg before she finishes removing the bandages and it fades to a manageable throbbing with the occasional itch and sharp stab.

“When you fell, did your leg catch on anything or pull at all?” She asks, leaning just out of the tent to drag in a small pack and rummage through it, placing clean bandages and other supplies on the bedroll beside his thigh.

”Not that I recall. Just a pshew-“ he cuts through the air in a quick downward motion and a sluggish shake of his head, “straight shot through the bridge.”

“The cuts over your ribs didn’t seem too deep,” she murmurs, almost to herself, brushing his shirt just high enough to examine the bandages, warm fingers pushing them aside just enough to expose the cuts. Clayton hisses in pain but she seems satisfied enough and replaces them, applying the clean gauze and bandages to his leg and head. “Shouldn’t take terribly long to heal. But keep out of trouble. Aly!” She calls out, as she finishes up, shuffling out to the ‘door’ of the tent.

“What’re hollerin’ for, I’m right here, Bella,” a deep voice calls from just beyond the walls of the tent and a pair of legs clad in slacks appear in view with dark hands, one set on their right hip and the other resting a pot against his left.

“I’m going to go check in on Matthew, do we have any of that stew left for our patient here?” She asks.

“Got plenty, give me two shakes and I’ll bring it over to him,” the man offers, voice lowering to barely more than a whisper but is still just clear enough for Clayton to hear. “How’s he doing?”

“Well enough for now. He’ll need some rest though. Did Matthew-“ her voice is lost amongst the rustle of fabric as she stands and exits the tent, the pair moving out of Clayton’s range of hearing, their words buried beneath other sounds he’d yet to notice beneath the hum of pain and dizziness that had settled over him. The clatter of something wooden, soft voices in conversation at different distances and volumes.

His curiosity gets the better of him and he finds himself shuffling over to the entrance of the tent, taking care not to jostle his leg too much, and peeking out.

He is definitely inside of a church; the sloped wooden ceiling and stained glass windows a telling sign, along with the pews still pointed towards a wooden pulpit at the front of the building. Though it appears most of the pews have been removed, possibly consumed by the small shacks within the church itself, perhaps also by the pile of firewood but that looks far more like trees than handcrafted wood torn to shreds.

He sees a fair few people within the walls of the church; an older couple, probably in their mid 60’s, the woman knitting with careful hands while the man allows her to drape what looks like a dark scarf around his neck, whittling at something with a small blade. There’s a mother (blonde hair and olive skin) and her young daughter (has to be with the resemblance between them), playing hopscotch between the pews, laughing and singing some nonsense tune as they do. Another woman sits alone, dark skin and gentle features, poring over a book in her lap as she sits by a window like a sunning cat.

He’s startled out of his observations by a sudden pair of legs stepping into his view and a quick trace up to the adjoining body shows a man with dark skin and warm brown eyes holding a pair of wooden bowls.

“Afternoon. ‘Bella says you’d need something in your belly. Here,” he holds the bowl out to Clayton who takes it with only the barest amount of hesitation by his standards (still miles more than other folks might show but he can’t be begrudged that with the circumstances surrounding his position). “Name’s Aloysius, most folks call me Aly though,” he offers, taking a seat just outside of the tent, keeping the other bowl and picking at it himself. The smell wafting from the food has Clayton’s stomach rumbling for attention, and it does smell good…

“Clayton. Much obliged,” he murmurs, gesturing with the bowl before he starts to tuck in. _It’s damned good._

“Pleasure makin’ your acquaintance. Well, properly now. I can’t imagine you remember much from the past day or so. You’ve been out a good 24 hours now,” Aly mentions.

“Hell’uva spill I took, losin’ a whole day,” Clayton murmurs, meeting the eyes of the little girl who pauses mid-game, staring at him with big brown eyes, leaning up to whisper something to her mother. Clayton suddenly feels painfully exposed, spotting the fleeting glances of the other occupants of the church. His hat. He doesn’t see the normal shadow cast over his nose by the wide brimmed hat or feel its familiar comforting weight on his head. A quick scan around the interior of the tent doesn’t show it near his person. He needs that hat-

“Lost somethin’?”

Clayton’s eyes snap to the man still standing above him, more leaning now against one of the pews closest to them, his spoon held midway between his bowl and lips.

“My uh…my hat. Did it- Did whoever brought me here-…Miss Bella, she said somethin’ about a reverend?”

“Yeah,” the man, Aly, jerks his head towards a doorway just behind the pulpit. “Reverend’s upstairs. Not sure if I saw a hat with him but when Bella gets back down here, I’ll go pester him. Just lay back and play dead and I’ll deal with the peepers,” he suggests, finishing his bowl and looking down at Clayton’s, still a few bites left in the bottom. The bounty hunter quickly shovels them down and passes the bowl up to Aly with a grateful nod of the head.

“Mighty kind of you,” he murmurs, both for the food and the way Aly seems to fix the other occupants of the church with a look and they immediately return to whatever they were doing, the prickle on the back of Clayton’s neck settling for the time being.

He shuffles further back into the tent, trying to angle himself to be as invisible as possible, lying down and waiting for Miss Bella to return.

It takes a good thirty minutes or so before she does, her voice sharp and rife with frustration, getting closer and closer to the tent and giving her words clarity.

“-ve me from stubborn men who don’t know that blood’s meant to stay _in_ the body-“ Clayton hears the sound of clinking glass and the quiet slosh of water before the flash of red hair appears in his line of sight. “You’re still awake. Good,” and then there’s a cup in his face, smelling strongly of herbs. His eyes drag from the cup, up her arm to her face, lingering for a moment on the newly acquired blood stains on her sleeves.

“Drink this.”

“…What is it?”

His question is met with the purest expression of exasperated weariness as a too-big sigh escapes her lips.

“Are you really so paranoid that you’d think that I just spent a _full day_ bandagin’ your wounds and keepin’ you breathin’, _just_ to poison you when you finally wake up?” She asks. He keeps his mouth shut but something in his face must give something away, lets her know his paranoia was justified at one point because her expression softens just a little and the furrow in her brow loosens. “Its just valerian root tea. It’ll help with the pain,” she assures. Clayton hesitated but eventually reaches out and takes the warm cup from her hands, taking a cautious sip followed by a larger mouthful when it doesn’t scald him immediately.

“’M I gonna meet this Reverend?” Clayton asks, finishing the cup and handing it back to Bella, watching as the furrow returns to the spot between her eyebrows and starts working her jaw, the gears turning in her head while she works out a response. “You seem to know why I’d be here in the first place. Far ‘s the outside world knows, whatever holy man was here was eaten by the creature. Least he was accordin’ to some girl who ran outta here screamin’ ‘fore she was turned to stone.”

Her vivid green eyes fix on him immediately with a thinly veiled defensiveness he can’t help but shy at least a little from.

“…That ‘_girl_’ was my sister. Cynthia,” she might as well have hissed the words for how much venom there was running beneath them. Years have gone by, but the body might as well have still been warm with the freshness of the pain in her eyes.

“…My condolences,” the expression doesn’t go away really, but it does cool a little as she straightens the edges of the blanket needlessly, just finding something to do with her hands.

“Thank you. Well, about seein’ the reverend…Far as I know, you won’t be _able_ to see him,” she says as if that explains anything and doesn’t leave Clayton feeling more confused about this reverend who apparently saved his life but couldn’t give the bounty hunter the time of day to say his thanks.

“’Able’? Your friend said somethin’ about checkin’ in with him earlier. Like he’d be in the buildin’,” Clayton asks, trying to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice and only just failing.

“…When you were out in the woods. You saw somethin’. A creature. Big, scaly. Like somethin’ out of a nightmare?” She asks and Clayton nods slowly, eyes narrowing. “Well on that day, when the church filled up with…shadow and smoke, before the rest of the town fled, the reverend was changed. Not his soul, mind. Don’t think even a demon of that calibre’s able to twist that man’s nature. But he did change his body. So if anyone else sees him, other than the poor souls inside this church…he changes into…well, _that_.”

Clayton recalls the glint of teeth, the clack of the hardened scales shifting against each other with the underlying rattle of its tail. The way its voice was many at once, layered on top of each other.

** _‘I̶͚͠t̵̘́’̴͕̓s̴̀ͅ ̷̻́a̶͖̋l̶͍̏r̵̮̃i̶͈͗g̵̱̒h̴̨͌t̷̞̊.̸̘̍ ̸̦̽D̴͑͜ỏ̵̻n̷̘̿’̵̬͂t̶̨͠ ̵͉̈b̵̢͊e̵͙͂ ̵͇͌á̸̝f̷̪̏r̷̪̕a̶̟͌ĩ̸̬d̴͓̊.’_ **

He combed through his memory, trying to find a trace of the creature showing actively aggressive behaviour. Of making an attempt at harming him directly. But there’s nothing. Even shooting it multiple times, it didn’t do anything to him beyond a warning. Barely even that, it _encouraged_ him to leave.

Perhaps it isn’t as evil as it seems-

No. He clenches his jaw and reminds himself of those moments, when he doubted himself, his judgement, when it came to the creatures he hunted. All those moments when he’d thought for a brief second that the creature was benevolent, or the bodies they possessed were free of the evil, just to end up a few quarts lower on blood and a few bullets poorer.

“The townsfolk sure seemed convinced the creature meant ‘em harm,” he muses, seeing something cross over Bella’s face. Protectiveness? General offence? He’s not quite sure but its not good.

“Not sure if my word’ll do much to convince you seein’ as we’re basically strangers, but you have it, that Reverend Mason wouldn’t hurt a fly if he didn’t have to and the only thing bigger’n a fly he’s hurt has been the game he brings back here for the people stuck here ‘cause of the second part of the demon’s curse on us,” she insists. She may believe it. But the predatory way the creature moved and the haunting golden glow in its eyes still leave him cautious but that’s a matter for later.

“Second part? Has it, by any chance, got anythin’ to do with what happened to your sister?” He asks.

“…Yes,” she sighs, gesturing towards the front door of the church. “The people inside the church at the time, save the Reverend himself, were cursed in a different way. If we leave the grounds, we’ll turn to stone. Not sure if it’ll happen to you, seein’ as the Reverend doesn’t change with us like he does when you look at him…but who knows,” she muses with a dark and entirely unamused chuckle.

“You may just get the short end of both of the proverbial sticks.”


	3. Chapter 3

Hey all, so unfortunately due to outside circumstances, I ended up leaving this fic, amongst a couple others, alone for too long and now I’m not really able to look at them without feeling consistently blocked or uncomfortable. But because I’d like to give you all closure, or even the opportunity to pick up the banner yourself, instead of just abandoning the fic, below you can read over where I was going with this nonsense.

If you wanted to write with the AU, feel free to, add an ‘inspired by’ or a ‘gift work to’ to me so I can read it and lavish you with the praise you deserve <3

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Clayton comes to in a warm tent-like structure, he crawls out and he finds the others who help him around and inform him what’s going on, giving him massive shit for shooting their Preacher and now he’s locked himself in his room and refuses to come out, trying to treat his own injury.

Clayton doesn’t believe it, he’s seen shit from witches, demons, monsters, that have convinced humans they’re fine. They use a statue from outside to prove it, dragging the shattered pieces of Arabella’s sister’s statue that reforms into flesh when its brought back over.

He decides to stay to help them because he can tell they’re sure af cursed but still doesn’t trust the ‘Preacher’, thinks he’s still a demon in charge of it all.

The reverend wanders around in his dog shape, trying his best to show he’s not a threat. He can speak, Clayton doesn’t trust anyone so he refuses to test the whole ‘don’t look at him and he’ll be human thing’ until a few days later, after Mason has helped by bringing more food and fabrics for the people.

Mason acknowledges that Clayton will never believe him, and offers to take him back to Deadwood at Dawn. Clayton tells him to wait, a then the trust-fall style dialogue takes place. A way of showing his trust but also to test if its true.

They start to grow closer, Clayton keeping his eyes closed when the Reverend is around and they’re alone. The Reverend keeps his physical distance to respect the trust but also needs to guide Clayton when he needs to walk around.

Clayton starts to fall for the Reverend (Mason was already head over heels for the man but fuck if he’d tell him, he’d leave) they have a moment alone in the Reverend’s room because Clayton’s realised Mason’s feelings and is trying to encourage him into giving in. Mason does, kissing and all that shit, then Clayton blindfolds himself, telling Mason that he trusts him wholly and fully and they fuuuuuck.

There’s no way Mason is going to kill another human (he gives in and tells Clayton that’s how the curse is broken and the others are okay with it, they’re not going to make him) and they have a huge fight over it, Clayton leaves the church for a few hours but comes back later. Clay decides if Mason won’t break the curse (and the others are okay with it) then he’ll just live there with them, blindfolded with his lover.

A scout from Deadwood tries to figure out whats going on and happens upon the pair as they’re making up, Clayton figuring it out cause he’s definitely blindfolded but Mason’s shifted? He opens his eyes and spots the scout, trying to go after him but they bolt on horseback before he can and they accuse him of cavorting with the demon

The lynchmob shows up, ready to burn the church and kill the demon once and for all, along with all its damned parishioners, they start advancing and Mason goes to defend but Clayton knows how this will end: with them attacking, Mason accidentally killing them and never being able to forgive himself.

So he puts himself between Mason and the mob leader at exactly the wrong time, taking the slash Mason makes.

Clayton bleeds out on the ground in front of Mason. He’s crouched on the ground, whining, crying out, and just as the life leaves Clayton’s eyes, Mason shifts back with a gut wrenching howl of grief.

Arabella bolts out, knowing the curse is lifted, going straight for Clayton and forcing the town’s people who stayed (most bolted when they saw Mason, scared for their lives) to fuck off. Mason carries Clayton back to the church and Arabella does some occult healing and praying and harnessing shit to heal him.

He comes back, and he opens his eyes to see the very human, Matthew Mason, hovering over him, tears in his eyes. They kiss, they hold each other

The people living in the church expand to newly built houses just outside of it, unwilling to move too far from their Preacher/Protector power-couple.

Clayton lives with Matthew in the church, happily ever after

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(Clayton asking Mason about his appearance)

“I want to know what you looked like. Before the curse.”

***"Do you trust me?"***

"....yes."

***"Then close your eyes"***

He sees the hulking, monstrous form stalk towards him, claws leaving scores in the carpet as it moves. Clayton feels his heart quicken and sees the creature pause, hesitating.

Clayton closes his eyes.

He hears movement, something shifting closer.

"Can I ask you one more favour? To put out your hand?"

The voice is familiar if altered. Like the coarse rumble of the creature had been soothed with honey, seeping into Clays mind and soothing him as well.

He does as hes asked.

His fingers brush against something warm. Well muscled flesh beneath worn fabric that flinches when he makes contact then forces itself to remain still, waiting for Clayton to make the next move. Clayton relaxes and after that they maintain less physical and emotional distance.


End file.
